Movie review: Documentary is adoring portrait of Linda Ronstadt

Al Alexander More Content Now

Thursday

Sep 12, 2019 at 2:59 PM

Amid a parade of music documentaries, “Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice” just might be the sweetest, most wrenching of the bunch. Set within the parameters of a traditional cradle -to-grave (for the voice; not the singer) bio-pic, it thrives on its intimacy in getting to the crux of what it was that made Ronstadt one of the finest vocalists to ever pick up a microphone.

Her range, in octaves and styles, cut across all genres from rock to pop, from to country to new wave. She even sang and crooned old standards so well it no doubt left Julie “Cry Me a River” London rife with envy. And anyone who’s ever heard Ronstadt in person knows how powerful that voice could be. Sang, crooned, heard, could … You’ll notice my use of the past tense, which - sad to report - is because of the Parkinson’s that has all but silenced her precious instrument.

Directors Jeffrey Friedman and Rob Epstein take full account of what we’ve lost by offering example after example of how in her prime she could effortlessly take any tune and make it exclusively her own, from Little Feat’s “Willin’” to Elvis Costello’s “Alison” to the Gershwins’ “Someone to Watch Over Me” to the McGarrigle Sisters’ “Heart Like a Wheel.” It’s an assertion supported by Ronstadt’s longtime friends and collaborators Dolly Parton, EmmyLou Harris and Bonnie Raitt, all of whom (along with Stevie Nicks and Sheryl Crow) ably took her place when it came time to perform at Ronstadt’s 2014 induction into the Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame. Ah, what a night that was!

What those three superstars - along with Jackson Browne, Ry Cooder and legendary producer Peter Asher - all conclude is that Ronstadt blazed an influential path in helping women claim their rightful place in popular music, a business that was almost exclusively male until her albums started earning record executives like David Geffen massive paydays. We also learn she was stubborn, never backing from her risky decisions to genre hop; yet insecure when it came to liking the sound of her own voice.

Most refreshing is the revelation that she was no diva, always putting herself second to furthering the careers of her friends like Harris and Parton, who famously teamed with her on the smash album “Trio” in 1987. Seeing clips of them performing together on TV back in the day sends chills, as you sense not just their immense talent but their pure joy in singing together. It’s infectious. It’s a friendship whose tightness was no doubt fueled by Ronstadt’s need to fill a void left by a childhood largely spent in the isolation of rural Tucson home, just a stone’s throw from the Mexican border.

It’s fascinating how much her straddling the line between the American culture of her mother and the Mexican influences of her father, himself a fine crooner, informed her entire career. In fact, it was her mother’s love for old standards that inspired her to release “What’s New,” the heartfelt collection of standards she recorded with the great Nelson Riddle in the months immediately following her mother’s death.

There are a lot of tidbits like that sprinkled throughout the documentary, but what keeps you glued of course is the music, with Ronstadt herself adding the nuances of what made each hit so lasting. It doesn’t hurt that she’s a joy to listen to as a raconteur, teeming with self-deprecating wit and an admirable self-awareness of all the smart - and dumb - decisions she’s made over the years. Although the latter is duly rare, her biggest blunder remains her iffy decision to perform in South Africa during the height of Apartheid. Even all these years later, she still defends it, saying she doesn’t like anyone telling her what she can and cannot do. I told you she was stubborn.

Mostly, she’s just shy of adorable, refreshing in an industry where self-promotion is now valued more than talent. And although she never married or gave birth (she has two adopted kids we don’t meet) she has always been a nurturer to her peers, be it the Eagles, who evolved from serving as her longtime touring band, or Harris and Raitt, whose praises she sang to record executives when “chick singers” weren’t cool. Even Kevin Kline, whom she helped score a Tony nomination when she appeared opposite him in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Pirates of Penzance” on Broadway, thinks Ronstadt is pretty special for venturing far beyond her comfort zone.

She did “Pirates,” of course, as a tribute to her mom, who loved Gilbert & Sullivan. But her true passion was recording “Canciones de Mi Padre” (Songs of My Father) in 1987. When she speaks of it, her voice fills with emotion. And in a way, it also serves as a catharsis for long concealing her Mexican roots. Even Jackson Browne admits he’d always assumed she was of German heritage. And, naturally, we can’t overlook her years-long relationship with former California governor Jerry Brown, who she stood closely by during his runs for president in 1976 and 1980. His absence here is hard to overlook.

Yet, it does little to mar the enjoyment and the nostalgia “The Sound of My Voice” stirs via reels of archival clips and up-to-date interviews with friends and collaborators, like Cooder and Asher, whose close friendship with Paul McCartney (who once dated his actress sister, Jane) echoed in his arrangements for some of Ronstadt’s biggest hits, including “You’re No Good.” Like all us creatures of the 1970s and ‘80s, they’re older now, but also wiser, and what they’ve learned over the years is matched only by what they’ve lost. Never is that truer than in the film’s final moments when for old time’s sake Ronstadt takes a shot at singing harmony with her nephew, Peter Ronstadt, and cousin, Bobby Ronstadt, on the living room couch.

The effort is noble, but you can see it’s killing her to no longer be able to do what she loves most in the world - sing. It’s here where you start to weep like a baby, and those tears are well earned in a documentary that achingly discerns how much both she and her fans have lost. But thank God for all those great albums, which have forever preserved that glorious, one-of-a-kind voice.

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